


Renegade

by Tashilover



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape, F/M, Fem!John - Freeform, Forced masculinity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-21
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-10-31 12:56:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tashilover/pseuds/Tashilover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First they blamed it on terrorists, then on Mother Nature, and finally on God. But nobody could explain why three billion women died that day.</p><p>Or why Joan Watson was the only one who lived. (Inspired by Y the Last Man.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The jig is up

To this day, John was surprised she was able to save the photo albums from her childhood home. With half of London burning and people going nuts on the street, locating a couple of pictures should have been low on John’s priority list.

 

 

 

Her first priority was locating her parents and her sister. After she buried them, John scoured the house for a few key items. Then she locked the door and never looked back.

 

 

 

The only time John brought out the photographs was on Harry’s birthday. If she had lived, she would’ve been thirty-six today.

 

 

 

“You look nothing like your sister.”

 

 

 

John huffed, not bothering to look up from the album spread on the coffee table. “I was older than her. She looked nothing like _me._ ”

 

 

 

Sherlock stared at the album over John’s shoulder. Harry had taken more physical attributes of her father, with her dark hair and brown eyes. “Are you going to the ceremony tomorrow?”

 

 

 

“No,” said John. She may been able to hide herself for the past ten years, but the thought of being surrounded by so many men set her nerves on edge. “I’ve got clinic duty. What about you?”

 

 

 

“Tch,” Sherlock sneered. He threw himself down upon the couch, draping an arm over his eyes. “Mycroft forces me to go every year.”

 

 

 

“Not a fan of big crowds?”

 

 

 

“Not a fan of the ceremony, _entirely._ The prayer, the bowing of heads, watching grown men cry like children. It’s embarrassing.”

 

 

 

John shrugged her shoulders. “You can’t really blame them.”

 

 

 

“No, but I hate it all just the same.”

 

 

 

Sherlock sounded almost unsympathetic, but John knew better. Everyone lost someone on that day.

 

 

 

“You’ve never gone to the ceremony,” Sherlock continued without prompt. “Why?”

 

 

 

John doesn’t bother asking how he knew that. “I don’t like the crowds.” It was not a complete lie.

 

 

 

“But it’s not only that,” Sherlock said, lifting up his head. “There’s a bigger reason why you won’t go. Something you don’t want to tell me.”

 

 

 

John didn’t like that look in Sherlock’s eye. That was his, I’m-going-to-figure-this-out-and-then-lord-it-over-you look. John had to nip this in the bud and fast. “Three billion people died that day. Excuse me if I don’t want to be reminded of that fact.”

 

 

 

It was almost a low blow, going in that direction. The spark in Sherlock’s eyes died with that depressing thought, and John, despite herself, felt victory in her heart.

 

 

 

()

 

 

 

Sometimes John thought Mycroft knew. The man had more access to information than necessary and it was near impossible to hide anything from him. And yet, Mycroft had not swooped down and grabbed John from her bed, taking her to a secret underground laboratory.

 

 

 

If Mycroft truly didn’t know, then he was the least of John’s problems.

 

 

 

It was easy for John to change her name, to change pronouns when referring to herself. It was easy to cut her hair, hide her breasts, and even hide her voice. Her voice was still so very feminine, but with so many men these days adopting a woman’s tone, hearing John’s slightly higher pitch tone was not all that farfetched.

 

 

 

What was harder was finding birth control pills. Tampons. Yeast infection medication. Every year that passed, the harder and harder it got to track down these key items. And soon there were no more, forcing John to improvise.

 

 

 

It wasn’t so much John was afraid of being taken in by the government- Mycroft’s or otherwise. She knew she would be treated well, protected until her dying day. What was she afraid was losing her freedom, her simple right to say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Blood she was willing to offer. Tissue she was willing to donate.

 

 

 

She knew what they would eventually want from her was a child, and there will be no debate on that.

 

 

 

On some level she knew it was selfish, hiding away her uterus from the rest of the world. It was _hers, s_ she will always argue. She was willing to give her life to this country- nobody said anything about her reproductive system.

 

 

 

So on that fateful day ten years ago when every single woman in the world spat blood and fell dead upon the floor, Joanna Watson quietly folded her life away.


	2. The news is out

As the years went by, it was okay on occasion for John to unbind her breasts underneath her jumper. More and more transvestites#xA0;walked the streets these days, looking more like a woman than John ever was.

 

Sometimes John wished she could let free her inhibition, to allow herself to wear dresses, bras, and high heels again. It was not as if anybody was going to ask her what was hidden underneath that skirt.

 

John never dared, the fear of rape still prevalent in her mind. That first week of the Gendercide John was nearly raped  _five_ times. The attackers were not random strangers either, these were men John had served with, graduated from university with.

 

Still, John thought as a particular pretty man walked by in a red dress and matching heels, it sucked to never have that again.

 

“Don’t bother,” Sherlock said to her, never once lifting up his head up from his texting. “He has genital herpes.”

 

“I wasn’t-“ John cut herself short. How was she going to explain to Sherlock she only looked because she liked the shoes?

 

Instead of explaining herself, John said, “I’m a doctor. I would’ve noticed soon enough.”

 

Sherlock smirked, never once looking up from his phone, still navigating through the sidewalks of London with ease. “Sure.”

 

Even if John had been interested, she seriously doubted that man would’ve been interested in her. The extra layers she wore and the constant running she had done with Sherlock earlier today made her sweat rather fiercely. She _stank._ She was sure the people across the street could smell her.

 

Sherlock glanced back at her. “You’re tired?”

 

“No,” She said. “I feel filthy. I want a shower.”

 

“You wear too many layers. I can feel myself sweating from just looking at you.”

 

“Ha ha, very funny,” she poked him in the side. Sherlock flinched away, grunting. “You stink, too. Your coat smells and its rubbing off on you.”

 

“No, it doesn’t,” he protested. He then took a whiff of his sleeve and grimaced. “Crap. You’re right. I suppose we could take a break-“

 

“Good,” John said, hailing down a cab.

 

Back at the flat, John allowed Sherlock to take a shower first. She would’ve preferred to have first dibs, but she learned early on how impatient Sherlock was when it came to using the bathroom. While it meant no warm water for John, she didn’t have to worry about Sherlock barging in on her, demanding she’d hurry up.

 

There’d been a couple of close calls. Thank God the shower curtain was dark.

 

“Don’t take too long,” Sherlock warned her, even though his own shower was nearly twenty minutes long. John ignored him as she walked into the bathroom. “I want to finish this case.”

 

“Why don’t you finish your experiment?” John nodded her head towards the kitchen. Various chemicals bubbled in their containers. “Keep yourself busy.”

 

She doesn’t bother to listen to his reply. She closed the door, checked the lock twice and stripped.

 

John used to love her body. She had nice, big breasts, complimented by her shapely butt. She never considered herself to be cute, but the few partners she had been with have all complimented her on her techniques.

 

The testosterone pills took that all away. Her breasts soon deflated into sad little flaps. Easy to hide under binding and a thick sweater, pitiful to look at when exposed. The pills also made her nipples a lot more sensitive, causing chafing nearly every single day.

 

She didn’t have the luxury to mourn over her body. John took one quick glance of her naked self in the mirror and jumped into the shower.

 

There was plenty of hot water left, to her surprise. Perhaps Sherlock had a cold shower. Either way, John took the opportunity and lavished in the warmth.

 

That was a mistake.

 

Her showers never lasted any longer than ten minutes at a time. No matter how badly she wanted to soak, she’d always, _always_ kept her time in the bathroom short. It helped that the water was always cold.

 

Without intending to, she stood underneath the spray for well over ten minutes, not washing, just relaxing. She knew better.

 

John jerked when a loud crash, followed by a strained, _“Fuck!”_ was heard through the door.

 

John pulled back the shower curtain. “Sherlock?” She said loudly. When she didn’t get an immediate answer, horrible mental images of her friend, hurt and bleeding on the ground ran rampant. She didn’t bother turning off the shower, grabbed a towel and wrapped herself in it.

 

She knew she was risking exposure. “Sherlock?” She said as she opened the door a few inches, peeking her head out. “Are you okay?”

 

She gave a sigh of relief when Sherlock groaned back, “I’m fine. One of the beakers exploded and it caught me unawares.”

 

John frowned. “You didn’t get any chemical burns?”

 

“No, but the beaker shattered in my hand. Where’s the iodine?”

 

John froze. The iodine was in the bathroom. “It’s, um, in… wait a moment, I’ll get it-“

 

Stupid. So many years hiding and all of it went down the drain within a few seconds. John tried to close the door, to lock it, but Sherlock was already pushing his way into the bathroom, shoving the door opened with his shoulder, forcing John back.

 

He didn’t notice her at first, his focus on the iodine bottle sitting by the sink.

 

John clutched the towel, covering her meager breasts, slightly _dumbfounded_ that the world’s most observant man _had not noticed_ her. Sherlock was too busy washing his hand of blood to give her any attention. His back was to her, his head was down, his eyes averted.

 

 _Move, woman!_ John’s mind screamed at her. _While he’s distracted, move!_

It didn’t matter. Sherlock chose that moment to lift his head and casually glanced at her in the reflection of the mirror.

 

He had to do a double-take. His mouth dropped open. “John…?”

 

John ran for it. Even if Sherlock meant her no harm, she wasn’t going to stick around to find out if she’s wrong.

 

Exactly, where was she going to go? She wouldn’t dare run out of the flat, wrapped only in a towel (a fucking short towel, capable of flapping in the wind and showing off her cootch.) The only other option was locking herself in her room.

 

Sherlock was yelling for her to stop, to wait. John ignored him and slammed the door to her room closed. She locked it, then promptly shoved a chair underneath the door handle. She knew this move would only keep Sherlock out for about five minutes.

 

She dressed as fast as she possibly could, pretending she couldn’t hear Sherlock’s pleas through the door.

 

“How John?” Sherlock said, his voice trembling. John wasn’t sure if it was from shock or _excitement._ “How are you still alive?”

 

Frustrated, John yelled back, “I don’t know how!” She began rummaging through her drawers, trying to get to her emergency cash. Only a little more than two hundred pounds to help restart her life. Had Sherlock been skimming from her again? “It’s not genetic, otherwise my mum and my sis…”

 

Her voice trailed off as a new fresh wave of pain stole her voice. Was this really happening? God, how could she be so fucking stupid?

 

“John,” Sherlock kept talking. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

 

That’s what David said to her. That’s what Dr. Applegate said to her, just before they decided impregnating her was the only way to save the human race.

 

God, fuck, where was her gun?

 

“I’ve always suspected,” Sherlock was quieter now, like he almost didn’t care if John heard him or not. “There were signs, but I didn’t dare believe them. That the one woman to survive the Gendercide just happened to be my flatmate. The odds were too big.”

 

Damn, shit, it was still locked in the safe in the living room. She’ll have to leave it.

 

“You know who I am.” His voice still so very soft. “You know what I am capable of. This was a huge risk, sharing space with me. Why did you do it?”

 

John shook her head. What could she say to him? That she was tired of running? Maybe on a certain level she wanted to be caught, because it meant she didn’t have to lie who she was, who she is anymore? Despite changing her name, forcing the testosterone pills down her throat, she still considered herself a _woman,_ through and through.

 

She looked at her meager amount of cash. Looked at her bedroom window that was too small to fit through. There was no way out of this, she realized hotly. Not unless she wanted to fight Sherlock, a struggle she seriously doubted she would win. How do you talk about something like this?

 

John leaned her forehead against the door. The wetness from her damp skin heightened the smell of the wood. “Does this change your opinion of me?”

 

“Of course it does,” Sherlock admitted slowly. John could hear the smirk in his voice. “You’ve hidden yourself from me for over a year, John. I don’t think I can accept that you may be smarter than me.”


	3. They finally found me

It was a surreal moment, having tea in their living room as if this was any normal Tuesday. Despite Sherlock had known John’s secret for nearly a half hour now, she still bounded her breasts and wore her jumper to sooth down any odd bumps.

 

But that didn’t stop Sherlock’s eyes from roaming over her body when she finally entered the living room. John told herself it wasn’t sexual, this was part of Sherlock’s method, and she knew he was just looking for clues.

 

Despite that, she still felt a shiver go through her.

 

“What was your real name?” Was Sherlock’s first question.

 

This surprised John. She was expecting something a bit more complicated.

 

“Joanna,” she said. “Not very original, was it? Going from Joan to John.”

 

“No, it wasn’t,” Sherlock agreed, which irked John. “But understandable… would you like me to call you Joan around the flat? When we’re alone?”

 

She never thought she would have the option. But, “No. I still don’t feel comfortable with this. Maybe in the future, not now, though.”

 

Sherlock nodded and bowed his head slightly, touching the tips of his fingers to his lips. His eyes were dancing, probably from the thousands of unasked questions he had rolling around in his head.

 

John had one. “Are you going to tell Mycroft?”

 

That made Sherlock jerk. “What? Why should I?”

 

“I don’t know. I mean, are there other women out there? Who survived the plague?”

 

“I’m not going to hand you over like rat for an experiment,” Sherlock hissed. He shifted in his chair, offended. “In answer to your question, _no._ Mycroft looked and found nothing but rumors and ugly men in ugly dresses. I’m sure to this day he has sniffer dogs out there, looking for a possible lead, but I believe he had his hands in bigger cookies jars. Unfortunately genetic manipulation isn’t as easy as seen in the movies and I believe he is still years away from a proper subject.”

 

John didn’t understand any of that. “What?”

 

Roll of eyes. “ _Cloning,_ John. And it’s not just us, the United States, China, Japan- they all have their own little projects. But the female reproductive system is unbearably difficult. There’s no point in cloning a woman if she is incapable of giving birth.”

 

John had to put down her tea. All this talk about women as if they were _cattle._ It made her sick.

 

“I’m _not_ going to hand you over,” Sherlock reiterated, annoyed he had to say it twice. “I’m sure Mycroft would love to have your ovaries, but then I would never see you again.”

 

John had to hold up a hand. “Stop, just… stop.”

 

“What for?”

 

“Dammit, Sherlock,” Fuck, did he really not get it? “You just confirmed for me that I really still am the last woman in the world. So excuse me if I don’t feel comfortable knowing _my sex_ will soon be reduced to… breeding stock.”

 

Bowing his head slightly in guilt, Sherlock murmured, “... sorry. I didn’t mean… “ he sighed dramatically. “How about we change the subject? Do you have an idea, or a theory why you survived?”

 

Such great subject changers. “None. I took a sample of my blood to a friend of mine, hoping he could find maybe an anomaly in my blood. Something that might have given me immunity.”

 

“Did he?”

 

Joan’s lips thinned at the memory. “Unfortunately,” she breathed. “when three billion people die in one day, science is not exactly on everybody’s mind.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at that. “He tried to rape you.”

 

“Sherlock-“

 

 “No, no,” He held up a hand to halt her. “I won’t talk about that. Did he bother to test your blood or…?”

 

John shook her head. “Or,” she said.

 

“So there could be something in your blood giving you immunity, but never got a chance to prove it. Interesting.”

 

Joan didn’t like that tone in his voice. It was his, ‘I want to do an experiment’ voice. Last time he sounded like that, they had to replace the kitchen table after it disintegrated. “What clues?”

 

Sherlock jerked out of his thoughts. “Hmm?”

 

“To my being a woman? What did I give away?”

 

“Little things,” Sherlock murmured, shaking his head at the memories. “The way you position your legs is not like a man’s.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

He pointed to her closed knees. “You sit as if there isn’t a penis between your legs.”

 

John immediately looked down at her knees touching and blushed. She didn’t know why she blushed, and immediately opened her legs in reaction.

 

That move made her blush even harder. Girls were taught to sit with their legs closed. Opening them had the ingrained life lesson burn angrily deep within her, shaming her.

 

Sherlock grinned as John closed her legs again. She grabbed a pillow and shoved it atop of her lap. “But as I said earlier,” Sherlock continued. “The chances of my flatmate being a woman? Astronomical.”

 

“Good,” said John, her throat a little tight from the embarrassment. “If I fooled you, that means I can fool anybody.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t respond to that.


	4. The renegade who had it made

Life doesn’t change much after that.

 

There was a moment in the second day after the reveal when John came downstairs still dressed like a man. Sherlock gave her a quick look over, almost pouting in disappointment.

 

John nearly scowled at him. “What? Were you expecting me to come downstairs in a dress?”

 

Sherlock huffed and turned away. “No,” he said, clearly lying.

 

He never called her Joan. Never referred to her as ‘she’. And most importantly, he kept his hands to himself.

 

Though it was quite clear everything he did was forced. John could see he wanted to call her by the proper pronoun, by her proper name, from the way he would hesitate just the slightest when he called her. He got better with practice, yet he never could keep himself from staring when the occasional transvestite would walk past them in a dress and heels.

 

The big things didn’t change. There were, however, a million little changes to certain aspects of John’s life.

 

She no longer had to time her showers, a luxury she thought she had long kissed goodbye.

 

When it came to her monthly cycles (birth control long since been extinct for over six years now) she no longer needed to be so deathly careful about the disposing of her feminine waste.

 

No longer did she have to waste money on things like aftershave, or even waste time to use aftershave in order to give the illusion she had grown whiskers in the morning and needed to shave them off.

 

And finally, _finally_ no longer she had to stick a folded sock down the front of her trousers. At least not around the flat, anyways.

 

Sherlock didn’t act so differently around her. John didn’t act so differently around him. Something _had_ changed, though, and it took John nearly two weeks to realize what it was.

 

Relief. The large rock that sat on her chest for months (years?) was gone. The constant fear of discovery gave her frequent stomach aches, headaches, and she hadn’t slept without a knife under pillow in years. Having Sherlock know her secret made her breathe so much easier.

 

()

 

John had always liked Lestrade. She thought of him handsome, reliable, smart (despite what Sherlock said) and were John still Joan, she wouldn’t have hesitated in showing him a good time.

 

Today, she was having a hard time looking at him straight in the eye.

 

“Look at you two idiots,” he said, crossing his arms. Both Sherlock and John sat on the hood of Lestrade’s cruiser, ducking their heads like they were troubled school children. They _looked_ like troubled school children from the way they were smiling stupidly, uncaring they were covered head to toe in wet mud. “Exactly what the hell were you thinking?”

 

Sherlock spoke up. “Well, I was thinking I was catching you a murderer-“

 

“You shut up,” Lestrade snapped at him. He turned to John. “I expected more out of you. I had hoped you would keep him out of trouble.”

 

John couldn’t help it, she started giggling. “Sorry, sorry,” she sobered when Lestrade glared at her. She pushed back her hair and it made a horrific wet noise as John dragged out two handfuls of mud. “Sherlock’s right, though. We couldn’t let this guy get away. It was just damn lucky the mud slowed him down.”

 

Sherlock piped in, “Yes, Lestrade. In fact, I take back my previous statement. _The mud_ caught you a murderer. It just goes to show, even wet dirt does a better job than your whole team.”

 

John jabbed him in the arm. “Don’t be so callous.”

 

“Don’t smile when you’re saying that.”

 

“Tool.”

 

“Idiot.”

 

They giggled.

 

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. “God, you two are like three year olds.”

 

“Is this all you have to say to us?” Sherlock asked as he stood. He was still grinning. “If not, then we’re going. The mud is cold and I would like to have a hot shower.”

 

“Nuh-uh!” John hissed. “I call dibs. You always take all the hot water.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine then. You can have it… if you can beat me there.” He suddenly took off running.

 

John gave the DI an apologetic shrug, threw off the blanket they had given her and took off after Sherlock. 

 

Lestrade was glad to not have been witness for the next ten minutes. He would later get reports talking of two strange men, ducking and weaving through the back streets of London, dripping mud and giggling wildly.

 

The bandage around John’s chest pulled tightly, making it hard for her to breath and yet she still ran faster. Once or twice she caught the lapels of Sherlock’s coat, pulled on it with enough force to make him stumble, giving her a chance to overpass him.

 

John’s sneakiness and Sherlock’s long legs enabled them to arrive at Baker Street at the same time, and they both fought trying to get through the front door first. The fighting continued through the door of their flat. Then through the door of their bathroom.

 

“Mine!”

 

“Mine!”

 

Sherlock held himself up with two hands on the sink, gasping for air. Twice already he tried to pull off his soiled gloves, failing each time when he realized he couldn’t stand up without holding himself.

 

John thought she won because she had one hand on the shower curtain, yet she leaned against the wall, unable to more than just that. She couldn’t breathe properly, the stupid binding suffocating her. Without really thinking about it, with one hand she reached up underneath her jumper, grabbed the binding and pulled it loose.

 

It was tiring work, trying to unwind it from her torso. Once done, she let it drop heavily to the floor.

 

“John,” Sherlock breathed, watching the whole proceeding. He seemed confused, his eyebrows pushed together, creasing lines on his mud-covered forehead. “Your breasts…”

 

It took a few seconds for that to get through John's head. She looked down. With the binding gone, her sullied jumper formed perfectly to her wet skin as if it was vacuum sealed. Her jumper didn’t shape her breasts perfectly, but it was quite obvious they were _there._ The cold made her nipples tighten painfully, and they poked gently against the fabric, making the littlest of indentations.

 

“Oh…”

 

John slowly raised her head, making no effort to cover herself.

 

Sherlock’s expression was not lustful, merely observant. The man had not seen a natural pair of breasts for ten years and it was understandable the sight of them would be surprising. It was as if he forgot.

 

John licked her lips. “Do you want to see them?”

 

Self-preservation was screaming at her, telling her to shut the fuck up. The voice was small though, squashed underneath the sound of her heart thumping wildly in her chest.

 

Sherlock blinked up at her, eyes wide. He nodded once, curtly. He turned around briefly, pulling off his soiled gloves, tossing them into the sink.

 

It was not an invitation to touch, yet Sherlock took it as one, coming close and crowding into John’s space.

 

John pressed her back against the wall, flattening her hands against there as well. Sherlock’s fingers were cold against her stomach as he slipped his hand inside to get a grip of the wet cloth, and slowly pulled it upwards.

 

John turned her head, suddenly embarrassed, _ashamed_ of the state of her once-glorious breasts. She was never so self-body conscious.

 

“Was this the result of weight loss or testosterone pills?” Sherlock asked quietly, still pushing  the jumper up further.

 

“A little bit of both,” John admitted, though the weight loss was not a personal choice. Food was scarce during the first year of the Gendercide and John herself lost nearly two stones from the result. She seriously doubted she would ever regain the weight.

 

She gasped as Sherlock’s cold fingers carefully touched her nipples, pressed against them with his thumb in a firm, even manner. Not pinching, not teasing, merely observing as he kept rubbing them to warm them.

 

John knew it was an impossibility, but a small part of her thought all of her nerve endings in her breasts had long died. It was wonderful to be touched like this again, to feel her chest tingle and tightened in the most delicious of ways. Sherlock only touched her for less than thirty seconds, but she _craved._ She denied herself for so long and fuck it to hell if she was going to let this opportunity go.

 

Sherlock was momentarily confused when John slapped his hands away from her breasts, then cried out in surprise when she grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and dragged him to the ground.

 

“Is this okay?” She gasped, leaning over him, but not touching. “Please tell me this is okay.”

 

His eyes kept shifting between her face and her still exposed chest. He nodded.

 

She didn’t need to be told twice. “Take off your pants,” she demanded, grabbing her own belt and undoing it with ferocious speed.

 

Sherlock’s trousers were barely past his hips as John straddled him, tugging down his boxers, freeing his cock. The man raised an eyebrow. “No foreplay?”

 

“We’re way past foreplay,” John breathed, positioning herself. And in one smooth motion, sunk down.

 

 _“Christ,”_ Sherlock hissed, jerking. John gave him no time to adjust, not when her own body was crying for more, more, _more._ It been too long, and with every pull and tug, pleasure sparked through her like flashes of lightening. Sherlock gripped her thighs, trying to gain some control. She was going too fast for him. By the time he tried to move his own hips upwards, John was already down on him. At some point he gave up, tossing his head back, panting. The idiot didn't take off his coat, and now he was paying for it.

 

Doing this on the bathroom floor was such a bad idea. The hard, cold tile pressed against her kneecaps painfully, and they were getting mud _everywhere._ She wouldn’t count on Sherlock to clean this all up when they were done.

 

John didn’t care. Her senses were spiraling upwards as the rest of the world slowly faded away into background noise.

 

Suddenly there was a thumb pressed against her clitoris, rubbing in delicious circles. A small part of John hoped Sherlock had the smart idea to clean his hands because she wasn’t looking forward to cleaning mud off her clit and-

 

_Oh God-_

She thought she would never have this again. This connection, this freedom of her own body. She hidden it away, and she can't believe she got to a point where she wouldn't even look at  _herself_ in the mirror.

 

By the time she came back to her own senses, John realized she was crying. She barely held herself up with her hands, leaning over Sherlock with each arm on either side of his head. Most of her weight bared down upon his hips as his cock softened inside of her.

 

His hands were cupping her face, swiping away tears and sweat. He was looking at her like he had never seen anything like her in his life.

 

 _“Joan,”_ hesaid, breathing so hard it sounded painful.

 

John smiled down at him. And for the first time in ten years, she felt like a woman.


	5. Retrieved for a bounty

Somehow, John knew such a life couldn’t carry on. Not even Sherlock- fucking- Holmes could prevent that.

 

All of it went to shit one dreary late afternoon. Shopping bag in one hand, and a newspaper improvising as a brolly in the other, John ran through puddles the size of Lake Michigan trying desperately to get out of the rain. A part of her didn’t know why she’d bothered with the newspaper as she was already soaked to the bone.

 

"Sherlock?” John called up the stairs upon entering the flat. She received no answer as she pulled off her soaked socks and shoes. “Are you here?”

 

She trudged up the stairs, tossing aside the pulply newspaper, feeling a little guilty she was leaving Mr. Hudson to clean that up. She opened the door to an empty 221B, and noticed right away, a white and pink colored box sitting in the middle of the living room table.

 

John started at it curiously. It was such an odd sight, not at all belonging in a flat full of dark colors and dull pastels. There was even pink bow on top, elaborate and beautifully done.

 

She didn’t open it at first. She wanted a shower, a chance to change clothes and switch out her breast bindings. Half an hour later, Sherlock still wasn’t home and the box was still there.

 

Was it from Mycroft? It wouldn’t be the first time a strange, unusual gift ended up in their flat. On Sherlock’s birthday, his older brother sent him a skull-shaped cake. Sherlock wouldn’t say it out loud, but John knew he enjoyed it.

 

There was no card.

 

Shrugging, John gave into her curiosity and pulled the box top off.

 

The little gleeful feeling of discovery suddenly shifted to mute horror as the box top slipped out of John’s fingers.

 

Inside was a silver dress. Shoes and a purse. Jewelry.

 

Harry had enjoyed the nicer things in life, and John grew up knowing the names of high fashion. From one glance at the dress and accessories, she knew all of this together was well over a thousand pounds. Not including the diamond necklace, bracelet, and earrings.

 

John picked up the box top, and covered the ‘gift.’ She had to take a couple slow breaths to calm herself.

 

Who?

 

John’s first thought was Sherlock. But he said, he _promised_ he wouldn’t reveal her secret. Besides, Sherlock couldn’t be arsed to remember John’s actual birthday. He wouldn’t go so far as to buy her extravagant gifts like this. They had sex all but _once._ And that was over two weeks ago and neither of them have talked about it since. Though there had been the occasional knowing smile, shared over morning tea.

 

Mycroft, maybe? Made sense, he could afford it. Then what was the message here? There wasn’t a note inside the box, John noticed after a quick search. The man liked to be vague, but after being friends with his little brother for so long, Mycroft became… less vague in his language. He would’ve left a note.

 

John pulled out her mobile, sent one quick text to Sherlock.

 

GOING TO BE HOME SOON?

 

His reply: SOON.

 

HURRY UP, John hissed, pocketing her phone.

 

Even though she was alone, John felt naked in a roomful of eyes.

 

()

 

Sherlock said, ‘soon.’ He came home nearly two hours after that text was sent.

 

Upon his entering the flat, John pointed to the pink box. “What the hell is this?”

 

“It’s a box,” Sherlock said simply, taking off his coat and scarf. “I know your deductive prowess is way below mine, John, but I think it’s rather obvious what that is.”

 

He grinned at her, because it was funny and not at all malicious. In fact, he was rather proud he made such a light hearted joke.

 

The grin slowly melted off his face when he saw John was not laughing, not grinning, but had her arms crossed, still pointing rather heatedly at the box. “Did you do this, or did Mycroft sent it?”

 

“It wasn’t me,” Sherlock insisted, walking over. He opened the box. He frowned. “No,” he said, pulling the dress up. John hadn’t even touched it yet, and she watched as the beautiful long silver dress glittered in the light. “Mycroft wouldn’t send such a thing, even if he knew.”

 

“So he doesn’t know I’m…?”

 

“No,” Sherlock said, dropping the dress. “This is not his style.”

 

“Then who would send this?” John resisted the urge to pull her arms closer to her body. “I haven’t revealed myself to anyone.”

 

“Of course you have,” he was now inspecting the jewelry. “Your doctor friends. Can you guarantee everyone you went to in the beginning are dead?”

 

Dread filled John's stomach. 

 

“Oh God,” she cursed, turning away. There were only three men John had turned to when the world went to shit. Adding Sherlock, that made only four people in the known world who knew what laid between her legs. “It’s been years. How did they even track me down?”

 

“I don’t think they did. Looking for you would be like looking for a needle in a stack of needles. Pointless, fruitless, and involves more pain than needed. It is, however, quite possible they shared your secret with others. Look at this,” Sherlock held up the jewelry. “This necklace alone costs five thousand pounds. Who is willing to drop that much money?”

 

The whole box was a veiled threat, possibly a cruel joke. And John only knew one person who was willing to lose so much money, simply to put a smile on his own face.

 

“Moriarty,” she said. A sharp tingle ran down her back, clenching every muscle tightly.

 

John was in her own home, in her own clothes, her gun not far away and Sherlock was more than ready to help her. Despite so many reassurances, John hadn’t felt this much in danger since the first months of the Gendercide. She thought she would never experience fear on that level ever again.

 

She was shaking. “You think Moriarty talked to one of the doctors I visited?”

 

“It’s a possibility. He has lay lines everywhere. Perhaps one of your doctor friends said something to someone and eventually information was passed around. If you hadn’t been living with me, Moriarty might’ve treated such information as mere rumors. But…" he shrugged. "I guess you deserved a little more attention.”


	6. Never more to go astray

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Molestation and talk of rape.

They ended up destroying the dress by tossing it into the fireplace. John took the jewelry to a pawn shop and used the money to pay off the rent for the next year.

"What's his game, Sherlock?" John asked as they walked back to the flat. "Why is he doing this?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know. Men like Moriarty like to challenge and be challenged. If he had targeted  _me,_ that would be different, but his eyes are on  _you_. You are not smart enough to catch his attention."

John doesn't know if she should be insulted or not.

"He wants something," Sherlock mumured, more to himself. "Something only you can provide."

"Immunity? I did survive the Gendercide."

"No, that's not important to him. Why bother figuring out how you survived? It won't change anything. What he wants is entertainment."

John shivered.

The gifts kept coming. A week after the dress, a pair of Gucci heels wormed its way into their flat. After the shoes came a very expensive brand of lipstick and perfume. After the cosmetics, while Sherlock and John were coming upon a crime scene, a random man ran up and gave John her fourth gift.

"A fucking  _broom?"_ John yelled. The man took off at first sight of her anger. "Now this is getting ridiculous!"

"What's going on?" Lestrade asked, eyeing the broom with the large red bow wrapped around the handle. "Why do you have a broom?"

"John has a secret admirer," Sherlock said, flat toned. He ducked under the police tape. "Who has rather lame ideas in gift giving."

"Fuck you, Sherlock," John hissed, throwing down the broom into the street.

"A secret admirer?" Lestrade said with a sly grin. "Do you have an idea who the lucky bloke is?"

"I'm not gay," John snapped at him, feeling a little guilty doing so. He didn't know the whole story, how could he? "The admirer is nothing more than a little creep. I am not flattered."

Lestrade held up his hands. "Whoa, sorry, didn't mean to offend. Do you want me to visit him, show off my badge and scare him a little?"

"Lestrade," Sherlock said boredly. "Stop flirting. There's a dead body here, have some respect."

Lestrade turned to him, unimpressed. "Next time, say that without smiling."

Sherlock only responded with a toothy grin. "I'm only happy because I see Anderson isn't here today."

John took a casual look around. The usual group of forensic personnel she had come to know were not present. Only Lestrade and a few key officers were familiar.

"Yeah, these are new guys. Most of them transffered from different divisions."

Sherlock suddenly paused in his investigation of the corpse. He lifted his head up to Lestrade, his eyes narrowing. "Say that again."

"What? Uh... they're all new guys... most of them transffered-"

"You don't know them. Never worked with any of them before."

His voice was an almost whisper, treading on dangerous. If John didn't know better, she would say he was  _panicked._

Sherlock cautiously rose up, pocketing his minature magnifying glass. His eyes were darting everywhere, all on the surrounding forensics teams. John tried to see what he saw, and for the life of her could not see the danger.

Lestrade, bless him, didn't need an explanation. He took the cue and rose his arm slowly to his coat, trying to look as casual as he could while reaching for his gun.

John cried out when a sudden sharp pain exploded on her arm. She looked, and a two inch tranqulizer dart was sticking out of her flesh.

She pulled it out, threw it away in disgust. She opened her mouth to warn the others and immediately the world tilted on its axis.

She fell to her knees as a strange ringing muffled her hearing. She couldn't comprehend what just happened to her.

She heard Sherlock cry out her name, saw him reach for her, but he was being pulled back by two others. He struggled, managing to punch one of them but he was quickly overwhlemed when three more jumped into the fray.

Next to him, Lestrade was brought down by the use of a taser. They gave him no relief, keeping the little machine on him until he fell in an unconscious heap.

John was beyond thinking at this point. She quietly laid herself on the ground, and closed her eyes. The last thing she heard before her mind blanked out was Sherlock calling her name.

_"Joanna!"_

 

 

_  
_

When she woke again, she wished she was dead.

The headache that pounded her skull made her want to vomit. She turned over, gripping her head and groaning outloud. She kicked out her feet in frustration. She breathed harshly through her nose, willing the nausea to subside.

Very slowly, she opened her eyes. She swallowed.

At first, she thought she was in somebody's house. Somebody's very  _rich_ house, judging by the size of the room. Even the bed she laid on was stupidly big. The sheets were made out of silk and probably costed more than the rent at 221B. It wasn't a house, but one of those overly-priced hotel rooms only celebrities and monarchs stayed in. There was even a water fountain in the middle of the room.

It took a few seconds for her to realize somebody had changed her clothes.

No longer was she wearing her usual jumper or jeans. A long, elegant, white gown had been fitted on her. Like a virgrin sacrifice.

"Fuck," she hissed, struggling to sit up. She needed to get out of here, find Sherlock- oh god, she hoped he was okay.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her limbs were not responding as well as she wanted them to. She tried to put weight to her feet, to stand, but her knees wouldn't have it. She collasped, slamming hard onto her outstretched hands.

"Get up, John," she whispered to herself. "Get the fuck up. Get off the goddamn ground."

Someone began clapping. "Wonderful, Joanna! Love your enthusiasm."

Moriarty.

He watched her in glee as she struggled to sit back up, clutching at the bed like it was her only lifeline. "Like the dress?" he asked. "I'm afraid it doesn't fit as well as I thought it would; you hid your breasts too much to make an accurate measurement. But given the circumstances, I think it looks wonderful on you, Joanna."

He kept repeating her name. It made her skin crawl. "What did you do with Sherlock?" She asked.

"Hmmm..." Moriarty crossed the room and sat on the floor next to her. He picked at her dress and she tried her hardest not to flinch away from him. "Sherly's fine. A little sore from the taser."

"Where is he?"

"Right where my men left him, back at the crime scene with your Inspector. By the way, have you been fucked either them yet?"

He pulled his knees to his chest, grinning at her like he was her best mate at a slumber party. "C'mon," he cooed. "You can tell me."

This time, she pulled away from him. "Go screw yourself."

He was on her in a second, grabbing her by the hair and slamming her to the ground. She could barely put up a fight and he overpowered her easily. With one hand around her throat, he climbed on top of her, straddling her.

"The only person in this room who was  _designed_ to be fucked," he sneered, ignoring her weak grip on his arm. "is you, dear Joanna."

He then reached back and pressed his fingers against her crotch.

John froze. She tried to keep her face straight, not to show the fear that was building inside of her. But as his fingers stroked her, she knew he would just rape her for the fun of it. Despite herself, she begged, "Please stop."

Amazingly, he pulled his hand away. He grinned. "You know, in the beginning, I did have plans of raping you. I can't tell you how many times I fantisized Sherlock coming home to find you tied to your bed, ravished." The hand on her throat moved up to her cheek, cupping her face gently. "But that was such a pedestrian thought, so medieval. Boring. I take pride in my games. Trust me, what I have planned for you is much more interesting."

He patted her cheek. "Much more interesting."


	7. This will be the end today

"Keep still, will you?" Moriarty hissed in frustration. "I'm just trying to make you beautiful."

The effects of the drugs were finally wearing off, giving John more command over her body. It wasn't much to go on, when her hands and ankles were cuffed to a chair. She struggled, determined to keep her face out of Moriarty's hands as he tried to apply lipstick on her.

"Hold still, hold still..." He gripped her face tightly, painfully pinching her cheeks inwards to make her lips puff out. He messily applied the lipstick, uncaring if he smeared it.

He appeared to be enjoying himself. He roughly brushed on red blush and stuck pins in her hair. The only time John kept still was when Moriarty applied the masacara. She certainly didn't want to get  _that_ in her eye.

He ended the whole beautician session by pulling open the front of her gown and spraying perfume upon her breasts. He held he gown opened for a few seconds longer, long enough to make John turn her head away in embarrasment. With a satisfied hum, he pulled back.

"Oh, Joanna," he mused dreamily. "You're going to make so many men jealous."

John could not stop her body from reacting to his words. She flinched, every muscle tensed with the idea of trauma to come.

She kept looking over to the door of the hotel room, expecting to see Sherlock burst in. Beyond the occasional guard coming in to hand Moriarty handcuffs and the makeup, nobody else has opened that door.

She'll take anybody. Mycroft, Lestrade, hell, even Anderson.

The door opened and despite her mental prayers, two guards walked in, holding guns at their side. Moriarty gestured to John. "Get him up. Make sure his arms are behind his back. Then follow me."

John didn't know why he bothered to refer to her as 'he'. He was probably saving it for later.

The guards unlocked the handcuffs, pulling her to her feet. One of them eyed her cleavage line suspiciously, but made no commentary about it. Just another crossdresser with implants.

They cuffed her hands behind her back. Moriarty smiled approvingly, then stalked out of the room, not bothering to see if they followed.

They didn't give her any shoes. Frankly, John was glad for this. She seriously doubted she could remember how to walk in high heels.

They took her to the lift, each guard holding onto one of her arms. Lightly, John tested the grip of their hold, to see how loose it was. Almost immediately the guards sensed her muscle move and tightened their grip.

They weren't amatuers. If they had just been hired thugs, maybe John could move fast enough, break their hold and run, but not these guys. They would break one of her kneecaps before she got a step away.

Moriarty hummed the whole trip down to the ground floor.

The doors opened, revealing the entire lobby deserted.

Nobody was there, not even the employees. This didn't seem to faze Moriarty and he walked briskly across the empty floor, going towards a closed set of large wooden doors.

He paused before he went through them, turning to John with a grin. "Smile," he murmured sweetly, running a finger across her jaw. "It's your big deput." He shoved opened the doors.

On the side of the door there was a plague, explaning the fire safety codes. Only eight hundred people were allowed in the ballroom. The moment Moriarty opened those doors, more than eight hundred eyes were on her.

John couldn't help it, she tried to wrench herself away and the guards' grip tightened. They roughly pulled her into the room, still following Moriarty down the isle of chairs, passing the men staring her her.

Some she recognized. Many of them were high class politicians John has seen on television. Others were drug warlords, men she only recognized because Sherlock had their pictures on his wall back at the flat. The men she didn't recognize were dressed in suits that were worth more her rent.

All of them were men with great power, money, or influence. Every single one of them could start a small war if they wanted.

They were all blabbering, speaking in languages she couldn't understand. They were pointing at her, gaping at her, throwing her looks of disgust or disbelief. The bits of english she could hear all said the same thing.

"It can't be."

"This is a trick, it has to be."

"Ugly man in a dress, that's all there is..."

Moriarty walked straight to the stage with John trailing behind him. He took his spot besides a podium as the guards positioned John to stand in the middle of the stage. They gave her a harsh squeeze on her arm as warning, then pulled away to take their spot in the background.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Moriarty announced into the microphone. Immediately the voices died down, becoming so quiet John's ears strained from the sudden silence. "I'm so glad you're all here today to witness a birth of a new era. And I do mean 'birth.'"

He gestured to John with a sweep of his arm. "I present to you, for your pleasure, Joanna Watson. Fertile woman."

The room exploded in noise. Everyone was protesting, screaming, literally  _spitting_ at him in their anger. The english that could be heard called him a liar, what proof did he have, how dare he and so on.

Moriarty looked like he was having the time of his life.

He did nothing to calm the crowd down. They were all just a step away from rioting and all it needed to start was a single punch. John took a step back away from the edge of the stage, afraid at any moment they would climb on and come after her.

Moriarty grasped her by the shoulders, halting her. His fingers tangled into the fabric of the dress. "Gentlemen!" He cried out to them all, catching their attention.

John gasped out a "No-!"

He ripped at her dress. He pulled down the shoulders straps, tearing at them until they passed her elbows, explosing her front. He then grabbed the front of the dress where the dip sat, ripping in half, pulling violently until the whole dress hanged off her arms in tatters.

He shoved her in between the shoulder blades, pushing her towards the front of the stage.

You could hear a pin drop.

With her arms still cuffed behind her back, she could not cover herself. Every man gaped at her, their eyes roaming over her breasts, her crotch. She dropped down to her knees in vain hope she could hide herself.

"Like I said," Moriarty breathed, patting her on the top of her head. John turned her face away. "A woman. Let the bidding begin at twenty-five million-"

The noise of a single gun shot rang out and the right side of Moriarty's face exploded in a mass of blood and bone. His body stumbled for a moment, collapsed to his knees, then fell over.

The guard lowered his smoking gun.

John scooted herself away from Moriarty's corpse, unable to process what the hell just happened.

The guard pulled out the keys to the handcuffs and kneeled down in front of her. John was startled to see tears in his eyes. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I didn't know, please forgive me."

He uncuffed her. Once her arms were free, he pulled the remains of the dress around her, tying it off in a rudimentary toga-like shape. He helped her to her feet.

The whole room was still eerily silent. Nobody seemed to care Moriarty was dead on the floor his brains covering the stage. Every eye was still on her.

The guard helped her down the steps, and immediately the crowd parted, letting her pass. Some were crying silently. Others were making a cross sign with their hands. One young man, who must've been eight years old when the Gendercide happened, stumbled forward with a soft cry.

"Mummy..."

He collapsed before he even got close to John, sobbing openly on the floor.

Nobody dared to touch. When she was close enough to the doors, they hurried to hold it open for her.

John expected to see the lobby deserted. Instead, the doors opened to reveal at least fifty men dressed in full riot gear. All of them had their guns at the ready.

Leading the front was Sherlock and Mycroft. They froze, their rescue attempt suddenly derailed. Nobody moved, nobody made a sound. It wasn't until John's faithful guard tightened his grip on his weapon, thinking this a fight, John finally broke the silence.

"Hi."

Sherlock tucked back his weapon and rushed forward, pulling her into a tight embrace. He did his best to hide his pained face but she saw it. "Are you alright?" He asked. He doesn't bother to wait for a response and looked over her. "Can't believe he put you in a dress, you look ridiculous."

"Fuck you," she said. She struggled to keep herself from crying. Not now, and definitely not in front of all these men, staring at her.

Sherlock immediately pulled off his coat and draped it over her shoulders. "Should we...?" He waved at the special forces.

"No," said John. "It's... it's not necessary."

Sherlock didn't seem convinced but chose not to fight it. He pulled John close to him, with his arms over her shoulders.

He turned to Mycroft. "Thank you, Mycroft," he said quietly, then tried to steer John out the front doors.

Mycroft didn't move to stop them. He didn't have to move. "I'm sorry, little brother. You knew this wasn't how it was going to end."

The doors were immediately blocked. Sherlock pulled John back, his eyes desperately looking for an exit. "Mycroft, what the hell-?"

John's attention was pulled to the side by an unexpected yell, and she watched as her faithful guard was dragged to the ground, his weapon taken from him, his arms forced behind his back.

"Miss  Watson," Mycroft addressed her. "Come with me, please."

"Mycroft!"

"She needs to be protected, Sherlock. Only I can give that to her."

Sherlock pushed John behind him. "I'm not going to let you turn her into your goddamn science experiment!"

John pressed her face against Sherlock's back, feeling the warmth of his body against her skin. The roar of their argument became nothing more than background noise to her ears.

Ten years she fought this. She wanted her freedom, she wanted to keep her body to herself. In her head, she could hear her old university professors explaining the rights of women, how no matter the circumstances, she owed  _nothing_  to men. Her body, her choice.

Even now, ten years after the world nearly ended,  she had a choice.

John stepped aside Sherlock to face Mycroft. "I'm coming."

"John, no," Sherlock protested, grabbing her by the shoulders. In a lower voice, he hissed, "I can take you away. You know I can. I'll take us somewhere so far away they'll never find us."

John knew he could.

However, there was one factor that kept her from making that decision. John leaned up, pulled Sherlock in close to her and whispered in his ear,

_"I think I'm pregnant."_

Sherlock wrenched his body away from her. In an instant, his face  _broke._

His features  suddenly went slacked and John thought he came to a decision. His eyes closed and he fell, crumbling to the ground without a sound.

Mycroft stepped back, tucking away the empty needle.


	8. I'm a wanted man

"Are you hungry?"

Though she was starving, John shook her head. She would love to eat something but was afraid of being unable to keep it down. Her stomach didn't feel like it was up to the task of digesting just yet.

Mycroft turned to the man standing in a white lab coat and ordered some tea to be brought to John's room. The unknown man bowed slightly and trotted off, making no comment on John or the situation.

Once they were alone, Mycroft sighed. "You know, we've been looking for you for a very long time. We kept hearing rumours that there were women alive, hiding among us."

"Any of them true?" John asked with very little optimism.

"No. And trust me, we investigated every rumour. We left no stone unturned, no doubts left in our minds. All we found were corpses and broken minds."

"Sorry," John said. She wasn't sorry. She wasn't regretful. If Mycroft wanted to vent his frustration, he could do it somewhere else.

Mycroft's lips thinned angrily. She knew he hated her sarcasm. "If you are pregnant," he began. "The moment you  _suspected_  you were, you should have come to me."

" _Fuck you_."

"This isn't about women's rights!" Mycroft suddenly exploded at her. "What if the child is infected? The moment the sex turns, it may very will die, taking you with it! There are steps we could take to prevent it, but only if we catch it in time."

"This is  _not_  the first time I miscarried a child."

That shut Mycroft up. John took sadistic glee watching his face sag, having hope die in his eyes. It was like witnissing a plane crash in slow-motion: she felt guilty for it happening, but could not tear her eyes away.

The breath she released made her shoulders drop, letting loose the anger she was holding. "I... I've lost two children in the past. What I have doesn't make pregnancy impossible," she said plainly. "Just difficult. But understand this, Mycroft: I'm  _old_. My body has suffered much trauma. I do not know if I am even capable of carrying a baby past the third month. So save your little speech. You placed your hope in the wrong uterus."

She didn't say it, but a small part of her had been  _glad_  the chances of her miscarrying were high. With the threat of rape practically around every corner, the only protection she had against an unwanted pregnancy was her broken reproduction system.

Mycroft gripped his umbrella so tightly his knuckles were turning white. John didn't know how horrible it must be for him, to finally find the last woman on earth and know all his efforts was for naught. It must feel like the Gendercide was happening all over again.

The silence was broken as the white-coat man came back with John's tea. He first placed the tea down in front of her, then pulled out a piece of paper from inside his coat, passing it over to Mycroft.

Mycroft read it grimly. He then passed it over to John. "Congratulations," he said. "You're pregnant."

He got up to leave. He paused by the door, and in an almost strangled voice, asked, "I assume Sherlock is the father."

There was no point in lying. "Yes."

Mycroft bowed his head. "Was it consensual?"

"Yes."

He shuddered, just once, and left.

 

 

 

 

They instructed her she wasn't allowed to go outside anymore. Not even in a contamination suit. They did not wish to risk it.

The secret underground lair, as some of the men liked to say in Dr. Evil's voice, was not the mad science lab she expected it to be. It was in  _Baskerville_ , for fuck's sake. There were rumours of genetic engineering going on here long before the Gendercide even happened. Some even blamed them for the extinction of women, though Mycroft assured John that was not true.

The men here were nice, gentle with her. Some were positively giddy to have her around, talking avidly about their wives, sisters and daughters as if they never died. Others treated her like the Virgin Mary, praising her with great hope in their eyes. John tried to avoid those men as often as she could.

They took blood samples, hair samples, swabbed her mouth and vagina. They regulated her medicine carefully, her bowel movements with a strict eye. One time she accidentally tripped and John swore nearly everyone in the room had a mini-heart attack.

They also called her 'Joan' or 'Miss Watson' which wigged her out. She had yet to call herself  _Joan_  in her own head and it took some time to react to the name.

When she wasn't being run ragged by tests, she was allowed to do what she pleased. She watched television, read books, exercised, listened to an ipod, the radio, napped excessively and was allowed the use of the internet.

Needless to say, she spent a lot of time debating on emailing Sherlock.

Mycroft had left Sherlock where he laid, unconscious on the hotel floor. Nobody made any effort to help him up, and John just let herself be steered away into Mycroft's awaiting limo.

So far, there were no updates on Sherlock's website. Nothing on Moriarty or other crimes. Even the local newspapers were very hushed-hushed, though John suspected that was more Mycroft's doing than anything else. How he was able to keep so many men from running their mouths (or declaring war) John didn't want to know.

John refreshed Sherlock's site. Nothing had changed.

 

 

 

 

Her belly grew.

Little by little, her skin stretched out, her weight changed. The men were keeping constant tabs on her stomach, measuring her every other day, squealing everytime there was a noticeable growth. Though it was unnecessary at this point, they kept giving her ultra-sounds every other day until finally she put her foot down and told them to fuck off.

Every day that passed, they celebrated. Many of the men admitted to her they were counting down the days eagerly, circling the nine month mark on their calendars.

 

 

 

 

"It was reported you cry at night."

John swore she was going to find whoever snitched to Mycroft and kick his fucking teeth in. It was bad enough the scientists around her monitor her every meal, her every bowel movement, but to watch her while she  _slept_? Creepy mother fuckers. "I don't."

"Are you experiencing pre-partum depression?" Mycroft asked. "Joan, you must tell me this. We don't want to risk... injury."

"You have the worst bed-side manner in the history of bed-side manner. And I'm a fucking doctor, I've seen the worst."

" _Joan_."

"Shut it. It's not... it's not what you think."

She had sessions with therapists, to help her with her PTSD. Two weeks after the 'auction,' John woke nearly every morning kicking and screaming, fighting off feeling of Moriarty's hands on her body, the sensation of her dress being ripped off her.

Things were better now, though the men around here learned very quickly not to come up behind her too quietly. Three of them were sporting new nose jobs after John's elbow came in contact with them.

Mycroft sat down in front of John, reaching over to grasp her hand. It was only the fifth month and her skin glowed with the pregnancy hormones. "Tell me."

She pulled her hand away. She didn't want his touch. "I am not depressed. I'm pissed off."

"At...?"

"Sherlock."

"Why? He has done nothing."

She was not going to cry about this, not in front of Mycroft. She could blame it on hormones and Mycroft would probably let it be, but blaming it on her pregnancy was so fucking  _girly._  John's lip nearly curled in disdain.

So she told the truth. "Where is he?"

Mycroft hesitated for a mere second. In that instant John knew whatever came out of his mouth would be a lie. "I don't know what you mean," he said.

"If he wanted to break into this place, he would have already. So where is he?"

"I don't know."

"Lie to me again-"

"Joan, please, for yourself and the baby, settle down."

It was strange, having this obtuse power over Mycroft. How far was he willing to go for this child? John visibly settled down. She gestured to him to continue.

"I'm not lying to you. The true answer is, I don't know. For better or for worse, he is the father and that's something I will not deny him. I only drugged him so I can get you to safety without further incident. Afterwards, once he calmed down, I was more than willing to bring him to you. But the morning after... he was gone."

John sucked in a breath.

"He left under his own power, this I do know. Where he went or why, I do not. He hasn't contacted me and... and well... I thought at some point he would have broken in already to see you. I now know he hasn't."

John felt sick. Unconsciously her hand curled across her stomach as her breathing sped up. She heard Mycroft muttered a worried, "Joan?" and she ignored him. She wasn't going to cry in front of him, she wasn't going to cry...

Mycroft dropped his brolly and quickly pulled her into a hug. John hid her face into his expensive suit, clutching at it, pounding her fist weakly against his chest.

 

 

 

 

On her fourth month, she miscarried.

She was on the treadmill when it happened. She wasn't walking very fast, just enough to get in her daily exercise. Despite the size of the lab, there really wasn't much room to roam around in. It was terrible that she wasn't allowed outside, not until after the baby was born.

It started out as a small pain, like a stitch in her side. She lowered the speed and kept walking, getting upset when the pain refused to leave.

Something inside of her suddenly  _snapped_ , and she gasped, stopping the treadmill immediately. She hobbled off, clutching her stomach.

Something felt  **broken**  inside.

She was monitored every hour of every day and it didn't take long for someone to come to her aid. By the time she was wheeled into the emergency area, blood was steadily trickling out from between her legs.

She didn't remember much after that. When she was fully conscious of herself again, Mycroft was holding her hand. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"Did..." she asked fearfully. "Did I lose it?"

"Just one of them," he told her.

 

 

 

 

All the men wanted to be present but Mycroft denied them all. John thought about telling Mycroft himself to fuck off and go into the other room.

She didn't really mean it, deep down. Over the past few months the bitter feeling she felt towards Mycroft slowly died away. At this point she didn't know if she was fighting against him because what she felt was real or because she thought she had to.

John leaned back against the bed, pulling up her shirt to expose her stomach. She bit her lip at the sight of her stretch marks.

Dr. Gale squirted gel on John's bump, then placed the sensor on top. As he moved it around the images came on screen, John saw Mycroft tense.

John saw an arm. The shape of a head. The sensor moved and she saw legs. She gasped.

"It's a boy," Dr. Gale said, his voice trembling. There were tears in his eyes. "It's a little boy."

There was no anger, no disappointment that the child was the wrong sex. There was only pride and love and awe.

"Shall I make the announcement to the others?" Mycroft asked.

"Please do," John told him. "Also tell them I don't want gifts. I'm sick and tired of finding frankincense in my room."

 

 

 

 

Her due date was in two weeks. John wished it was closer because she so  _fucking_  sick and tired of being pregnant.

She sat in a bath of warm water, soaking her skin. She wished it was hotter. Her ankles and her back needed the warmth. But she knew if she dared to make the water hotter, she'll have someone running into the bathroom in a panic.

John lowered herself more into the water, stopping when the level reached just below her nose. The top portion of her pregnant belly stuck out. She kept splashing water over the bulge to keep it warm.

She jerked when the door to the bathroom suddenly swung opened. Stepping through was one of the men in a contamination suit. Most of them started wearing that suit as her due date got closer, though it was unnecessary. Most of them never left the sanctuary in the past nine months.

She expected the man to tell her to get out, it was time for her medication or something like that, but he just stared at her through his tinted plastic mask.

"Goddamn it," she hissed angrily. "It's bad enough you bastards monitor every one of my bowel movements but is it really necessary to watch me bathe?"

The man kept staring.

John grabbed the soap and threw it at him. "Get the fuck out, you wanker-"

The soap bounced off the man's chest. He watched it fall to the floor. He brought his arm up, grabbed his protective mask and slowly pulled it off his head.

"Have you named it yet?" Sherlock asked.

Blood drained from John's face. She felt sick and for a horrifying second, she believed she was miscarrying again. She wasn't, she knew she wasn't, but the nausea kept raising. "Sick," she moaned, pushing herself out of the bath and towards the toilet. "I'm going to be sick."

Sherlock quickly went to her side, grasping her by the elbow. The moment he touched her, the sickness went away and was replaced by blinding anger.

God, her fist hurt when it collided with the side of Sherlock's face. Such a stupid move, she couldn've easily broken her hand, but she wanted to punch Sherlock again. Again and again and again.

But she was nine months pregnant and she was wet and naked. She grabbed her towel and wrapped it around herself, suddenly self-conscious. "You  _fucking_ \- fuck! You fucking-"

"I see your vocabulary hasn't changed." Sherlock said, gingerly touching his jaw.

"Fuck you!" She literally could not think of anything else to say. She pulled the towel taunt around herself and tried to leave. She skidded on a wet patch, stumbled, forcing Sherlock to reach out and grab her.

"Calm down," he commanded. "You need to calm down before you hurt yourself."

He had the nerve to place hand across her belly, like he had the goddamn right. He snatched his hand back suddenly, curling his fingers inward. "He moved," he gave as explanation.

The door to the bathroom burst opened. Mycroft lead the front while four other men were behind him, carrying guns and tasers. Mycroft stared at Sherlock, his chest expanding as he drew in a large breath. "You-"

He cut himself off. "Get Miss Watson out of here," he commanded to the other men.

As the guards gently took John by the arm and started leading her out of the bathroom, John wanted to protest. She had a right to be here, to know what was going on, but if looks could kill, Sherlock would be on the floor by now. Mycroft's hands were curled into tight fists and they were shaking.

Before the door closed behind them, she heard Mycroft hiss out, "You son of a-"

 

 

 

 

Twenty minutes later, Mycroft visited John in her room. "Do you want to see him?"

"Where is he?"

"Decontamination showers. It's unnecessary, but I ordered the men to scrub  _extra hard_  just in case."

John placed a hand on her large belly. The boy inside had been kicking for quite a while now. Was he happy or irritated, she didn't know. "Has he given an explanation why he disappeared for nearly ten months?"

"No," said Mycroft. He let loose a long-suffering sigh. "He said he'll only talk to you about it."

Kick-kick-kick-kick-kick-kick-kick-

"I'll see him," she said finally. "Can I have a gun?"

"No."

 

 

 

 

"Should I call you John or Joan now?"

Sherlock's hair was damp from the decontamination shower, his skin bright red. He was wearing a standard disposable gown, an ugly piss-yellow thing. It made him look ridiculous and John was sure Mycroft only did that to Sherlock for her benefit. "You may call me  _Miss Watson_ ," she told him.

A table seperated them and John was happy for it. She wasn't about to throw herself over a table to claw his eyes out and it nautrally hid the pregnacy from Sherlock's scrutiny.

Sherlock made a face and sat down in front of her. "I'm not one of your servants here."

"No, you're right. Because I've actually allowed the men here to call me Joan but they choose to call me Miss Watson out of respect. You haven't  _earned_  that right. You don't get to say my name."

He looked like he wanted to argue that. "You're angry. I understand that-"

"You understand nothing!" John yelled. "Actions have consequences, Sherlock. You do not pick and choose which consequences to face! Running out on this pregnancy was not an option!"

"When were you going to tell me you were pregnant?" Sherlock suddenly snapped at her. "It was over a month when we were together and you never once hinted to me you were pregnant! What were you waiting for? The birth to tell me?"

"Don't you dare place this back on me. I had to be sure. I had no idea if the Gendercide affected my reproduction system."

"Clearly it hadn't."

"It did, you fuck!  _I lost the girl_!"

Grief took the anger away on the last word. It was never confirmed that the fetus was a girl, it was too early, but something told John it was. How can she explain the hole in her heart of losing a child she never saw? She'd lost children before, but she had her mother and her sister to lean against. She had her friends, other women who'd lost children and knew exactly what she was going through.

Losing the child  _and_  finding out it was a girl was a personalized hell for John.

Sherlock always had an unnatural thinness to his face, like he'd been starving himself since he was a teenager, but it was a look John came to know and respond to. At the declaration of the miscarriage, blood drained from his face, hollowing out his eyes, making him look like skeleton.

"I ... I didn't know you were carrying twins."

John placed her hands on her stomach, willing the baby to stop kicking. "Why did you leave? What was so important that you had to disappear for nearly a year?"

"Moriarty."

John snapped her head up, nearly hurting her neck at the speed. "He's dead!"

"Not his minions," Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing dangerously. John has seen this before on Sherlock. He looked like this when he was afraid. To cover that fear, he invoked anger, anger so powerful and great people should scatter when they see it. "The spider is dead but the web remains. I had to dismantle each and every thread and take the whole thing down. Even if one strand remains, it's capable of catching flies."

"Flies?"

He blinked at her. "You."

John forced herself not to shudder. The baby kicked again.

"The men at the auction," Sherlock continued. "Most of them were willing to lay down their lives for you, but there were some who were not moved by the sight. Those men would not hesitate in harming a woman, pregnant or otherwise. To keep you safe, I had to leave to find them and rid of them."

There was something unfinished in Sherlock's voice. "Is it over, then?" John asked. "Is Moriarty's web gone?"

"Yes."

Sherlock sighed, his shoulders dropping, as if he didn't believe in the truth himself until he finally said it. "Yes, he's gone. All of it."

John held out her arms. "Come here."

Sherlock came to her, kneeling down at her feet. Other men in the lab have done the same to John, regarding her as some sort of religious symbol. It irked her that so many have done this. Sherlock reached out and pressed his hands against her stomach.

John covered his with her own. They held on to each other in silence until the baby started kicking again.

 

 

 

 

For the next four days, nearly every second of every minute, Sherlock never left her side. John knew on some level she should be annoyed and offended by this, but she practically bathed in the attention. It was nice to be around somebody who didn't treat her like the mother fucking Virgin Mary.

Sherlock talked to John, told her his activites the past nine months. He told her of the men he met, the plans he uncovered, the secret wars being held. John soaked up the stories, imagining them with as much detail as she could muster. Anything was better than her sitting here, watching her stomach slowly grow.

"I will take you to see these places," Sherlock promised her often. "You, me, and our son."

John was sure he meant nice, safe places like Hawaii or France, not the dangerous backwater places in which he hunted down Moriarty's men. Or maybe he did mean those places. John didn't care- she missed going outside.

On the fourth day, her water broke.

The sensation of it woke her in the middle of the night, thinking she had wet herself. (Wouldn't be the first time. She used the toilet nearly every hour since she's got pregnant.) And with Sherlock reading in the next room, it was going to mortifying to ask him to get her another pair of pants.

John scooted up to swing her legs over when the first rounds of labor pain stabbed her in the side. The pains were small, like a stitch on her side. Immediately she knew what this was.

On every wall in John's room, Mycroft had placed a small button in an easy-to-reach area. He had them installed shortly after the miscarriage. The moment John knew she was in labor, she was suppose to press that button.

Instead of pressing it, she padded out of the bedroom. Sherlock lifted his head up from the book he was reading, his eyebrows raising at the sodden wet sight of her.

"It started," she said.

In a moment Sherlock had tossed his book aside ( _Jack the Ripper: Male or Female_?) crossed the room and cupped John's face. He kissed her lips, her eyes, her cheeks, her forehead. He pulled her close. Frankly John was a little surprised by the gentle affectionate touches.

"I think I understand what the other men feel like," he admitted, his chin resting on the top of her head. "This will be the first child to be born in ten years. He'll be the youngest person in the world."

"You better stop that line of thoughts right now before you overwhelm yourself."

His arms tightened around her. "I'm going to be a  _dad_."

His hand shot out and slapped the emergency button. A blue light lit up and now everyone, all three hundred and fifty-two doctors and soldiers, knew John was in labor. She swore she could hear them cheering.

 

 

 

Joan woke around two in the morning. Everything was so sore, her vagina, her ass, her back, her sides, everything. She checked the clock and saw she'd been asleep for nearly eight hours and it felt like it only been ten minutes. She almost drifted off again.

She would have too, if she didn't see Sherlock cradling Elliot in his arms. He looked like a shadow in this dim light, holding the baby close to him. "I still can't believe you let Mycroft name him."

Oh, he was  _pissed_  when Joan announced to Sherlock Mycroft had the naming rights. That's what happens when the father disappears for nearly ten months. "Why? What did you want to call him?"

"Lionel."

"Oh  _god_ ," Joan snickered, then groaned when her back ached sharply. "No, thank goodness I let Mycroft choose the name. Lionel? Really, Sherlock?"

He shrugged. The movement caused Elliot to snuffle, and he wailed quietly. Sherlock shushed him gently, maneuvering him to place him back down into the hospital crib. "While you were asleep, Mycroft informed me in Japan, they were finally able to successfully clone a female."

Joan was just drifting off again. The news woke her up fully. "Seriously?"

He nodded. "They have no idea if she'll live long enough to see puberty, though. She's not immune and they have her under quarantine. Mycroft is sending them a vial of your blood, to see if their cloning techniques and your immunity would be the perfect combination."

"Maybe she and Elliot would be friends," Joan said. Tears were prickling at the sides of her eyes. "They're the same age."

For years she wondered why- why did this happen to her, why was she only one immune? A billion questions and no answers.

Joan didn't believe in God, she did not want to invest in the idea that this was her ultimate fate, to become mother of the  _world_. And yet here she sat, with Elliot sleeping quietly and Sherlock looking over them both, she wouldn't want it in any other way.

Sherlock gently brushed her hair back out of her face. "Go to back to sleep," he said. "I'll be here when you wake up."

Joan leaned her head back. She closed her eyes. For the first time in ten years, she looked forward to the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't tell you how glad I am for this fic to be over. *dies*

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Отступница (Renegade)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7844557) by [Vasilika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vasilika/pseuds/Vasilika)




End file.
